


Little Hellspawn

by Lerry_Hazel



Series: SN_GO [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Castiel Whump (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Episode: s14e13 Lebanon, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Made-up Lore, Magic, Parallel Universes, Possible Future Destiel, Religion, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), warlock's weird upbringing (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23350351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lerry_Hazel/pseuds/Lerry_Hazel
Summary: Dean gets stuck in 14x13 “John-disappeared-back-in-2003” AU, where the Apocalypse supposedly didn't happen. Of course, it only takes Dean a minute to run into a fake Antichrist, antagonize a couple of occult/ethereal beings, and learn that it takes more than a Time-travel paradox to break a Profound Bond.***Just a silly crossover I needed to get out of my system. Read at your own risk, I mean it.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: SN_GO [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1708090
Comments: 11
Kudos: 119
Collections: Good Omens (Complete works)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Nothing is mine, obviously: because if it were up to me, my favourite characters wouldn’t keep doing terrible things and pretend it’s OK since they are the “good guys” :-(
> 
> EXTRA WARNING: You’ll probably figure it out yourselves by the end of the first paragraph, but just in case: yes, I got rid of Sam - for good (John&Mary too, but that's what the original authors did, anyway). May all sorts of good things happen to you off-screen, Sam.

*****

******

*******

Dean didn’t know whether it was because he had been the one to make the original wish, or because someone else’s heart desire interfered, of because a chunk of archangel’s grace couldn’t just disappear from one’s head, but destroying the Pearl didn’t set things right. As soon as the thing was crushed, both his parents did that glowing-and-flying-up thing that hopefully meant they were forever united in Heaven; then Sam turned into his geeky-glassed-wearing kale-loving self and blinked out of existence; and then even the walls of the Bunker were gone, and Dean found himself sitting in a pretentious faux-peasant style bar wearing his nerdiest outfit, while an overcapable waitress brought him a cup of fancy coffee and assured him that Miss Buckman was on her way.

It took Dean a little over four minutes to see that #1 on his speed dial was actually the Roadhouse (“What do you mean, ‘Who is this?’ It’s me, Jo. Mom and Bobby are supposedly hunting, but personally I think they just wanted some alone time. Aren’t you meant to be working a case too?”), to unearth Sam’s number that turned out to be saved under Kale Lover (‘When will you learn to mind the time difference, Dean? I know you don’t respect my job, but Amelia is pregnant and needs her rest. Have you been arrested again? No? Then call back at a decent hour!”), to google all those things they had looked up earlier that day and to finally conclude that he was indeed stuck in the alternative reality his not-so-wishful thinking had created: a world without the Apocalypse, or Leviathans, or Metatron, or Darkness and all the subsequent disasters and losses; a world with no angels or demons or gods he might call upon to send him back.

Another minute was not nearly enough time for the implication to sink in, but then again, Dean Winchester, apparently, would always remain a hunter, and, therefore, extremely good at thinking on his feet.

‘Doctor McGowan?’

The woman who had hesitantly approached his table was perfectly slim and beautiful in a way that clearly took a lot of effort to maintain, and Dean had to check the ID in his own pocket to make sure he had indeed come on behalf of Child Services and then to cover it up by showing the document to her.

‘I am Amanda Peyton. Née Buckman,’ she specified, nodding towards the huge wooden logo on one of the walls, probably meaning to indicate that she was one of those who put “Buckman” into “Buckman Lodge”. ‘Thanks for coming all this way. Frankly, I didn’t expect them to actually send anyone – just wanted my “I told you so” on record when things inevitably go pear-shaped.’

Dean raised an inquiring eyebrow, urging her to continue but unwilling to say anything before he had a chance to figure out why his alter-ego had decided to come here in the first place.

‘I told them the “Family Retreat” shit was a terrible idea’, Amanda huffed irritably. ‘People who do wilderness stuff as a family bonding activity own tents, not rent hunting lodges, and guys who feel manlier sitting on their asses and drinking in a room decorated with stuffed animal heads certainly don’t need their families around. But, because Pat is the apple of Daddy’s eye and I am just the girl who got her degree while failing to become an actress, we give it a try anyway. Because “they are politicians, Mandy, big shots, and just think of what kind of clientele they’ll bring in if we pull it through”. So now we have a bunch of ambassadors, senators or whatever cursing our shitty Wi-Fi in the office space that was never meant for international conferences, their wives turn up their noses at the shitty excuse of a spa we sank a metric ton of money into, and their spoiled rich kids are wandering around unsupervised because the Secret Service spotted one disguised journalist in the entire team of animators I had to hastily hire, while Pat is oh-so-urgently needed in LA, and “Mandy used to be a girl scout, she can handle it”. And then that awful boy – ‘

She shook her perfectly coiffed blond head exasperatedly and took a sip of a bright-pink drink the waiter had brought her without being asked.

‘Perhaps you could explain in more detail what kind of – difficulties – you have been experiencing?’ Dean suggested carefully, trying to sound sympathetic, rather than confused. ‘Start from the very beginning.’

‘The very beginning?’ Amanda grabbed the drink with both of her delicate manicured hands and smiled bitterly. ‘Have you ever heard of Camp Chippewa?’

Dean had not, but nodded anyway, suspecting that was not the point. Amanda indeed continued without really looking at him:

‘I went there three summer in a row back in the ninetieth. It was run by a woman who insisted on wearing uniform shorts and pigtails despite being at least forty, and her equally bizarre husband. They were also both very keen on making friends with ‘the cool kids’ by letting them get away with almost everything: and now I see how weird that was, but back then I was one of the cool kids and, therefore, had the time of my life – the first two summers.

‘Then, the third time, there was that girl – Wendy or something – she must have been twelve or thirteen, like me, but she had that creepy gothic look down to perfection. Pale face, dark lipstick, old moldy leather-bound books, “Poison” symbol on her water bottle. Told stories that made you genuinely scream in terror, rather than shriek and laugh it out. She also obviously and sincerely didn’t want to be there, and the adults should have let her sit that one out, or at least been especially delicate about easing her into our company, but they must have wanted to make an example of her, so they just kept pushing. She pretended to cave, even accepted a role in their cheesy “First Thanksgiving” play. Instead, she brought all the other outsiders onto her revenge plot, and half the camp literally burned down! I was being tied to a frigging _pyre_ before anyone realised it was not part of the performance! I still dream of her looking me in the eye and lighting that match. And now it’s all happening again.’

She briefly closed her eyes and shuddered at the memory:

‘I don’t know what I expect you to do. It’s probably a job for an exorcist, not a psychologist. But I had to at least try to do something, you know?’

‘I can help, I promise,’ Dean perked up, finally in his element. ‘So, are you saying you’ve recently seen that Wendy girl somewhere?’

‘Not the girl,’ Amanda exclaimed, rubbing her temples frustratedly, ‘the boy!’

She took a deep breath and made a visible effort to calm down before continuing:

‘The ambassador, the one who is renting the main house, he has a son. And, as soon as I saw the boy, I knew he was just the same: the same age, the same all-black clothes; his tablet cover is made to look like an old book; and the horrible things he says! I mean, everyone hates their parents at thirteen, but he actually claimed his had been “handpicked by the Dukes of Hell to raise the Antichrist” – and the other children listen to him. I mean, he caught a skunk – a goddamned skunk! – and talked the senator’s twin daughters into petting it! I warned them they might get sprayed, but the insufferable boy said: “Brother Skunk won’t do it, because I asked him nicely.’ And now the girls, who had been perfectly content sitting at the terrace playing with their phones in order not to get their shoes dirty, run away unsupervised to explore the forest – hoping to find even more skunks!

‘Also, he yells at plants,’ she concluded bleakly, suddenly deflated. 

‘Yells, as in – ‘

‘Like this.’

She plugged earbuds in before bringing up a video on her phone, and Dean briefly thought about how surveillance cameras weren’t supposed the record sound, but obviously didn’t mention it.

‘I didn’t film it, one of the other children did,’ Amanda specified anyway. ‘It has a minor following. Look.’

*******

On screen, a brunch of teenagers were standing around a measly garden bed listening to a bullshit lecture about how tending to plants was good for the soul and eating organic vegetables good for the colon. It was painfully obvious the season was not right to plant anything, edible or otherwise, but, as a proud resident of “Sonny’s Home for Wayward Boys”, Dean approved of channeling excessive energy into a productive endeavor, even if none of the spoilt rich kids really knew what to do with the drooping potted tomatoes they had been given; or though Dean thought, before one of the boys on the record dropped on his knees and, without waiting for any instructions, expertly transported his tomato from its tiny pot to the garden bed, unconcerned of thick wet soil that, for some reason, refused to stick to his designer skinny jeans. Then he fixed the plant with impressively menacing scowl and barked:

‘Now you have no excuse to be slacking. Grow – better!’

And Dean could swear he saw the plant stand straighter and make an effort to uncurl its wilting leaves. He paused the record and rewound a little, searching for a good angle to zoom onto the boy’s face. The eyes looked normal – neither black nor glowing – but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

‘Well, I suppose I’ll have to have a closer look at the young man, then,’ Dean said, offering Amanda a smile of bland professional nonchalance. ‘What’s his name, again?’

‘Oh, didn’t I say? It’s actually Warlock, can you believe it? Warlock Dowling.’

*******

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*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha-ha, somehow it turned out to be a three-way crossover. Do you remember where Amanda comes from? It’s OK if you don’t; she snuck in while I was stealing the name of the summer camp and is not all that relevant to the story :-P


	2. Chapter 2

*****

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*******

Dean didn't notice Warlock right away, distracted by a peculiar sight of a small boy no older than eight running around a teenager who had to be at least fifteen – and a huge one at that. The former had a roll of bandages he was gleefully using to secure the latter's arm to his torso, although the arm didn't look hurt; the teenager’s cheek, nose and lip, however, all showed clear signs of falling face first on hard ground.

'Mind telling me what's happening here, Matt, Wesley?' Amanda exclaimed indignantly.

'Playing,' the teenager – Matt, apparently – hissed through gritted teeth, clearly seething, but for some reason unwilling to fight off his much smaller opponent.

'Matt was going to hurt the birdy,' the little one – Wesley – clarified eagerly, 'so I pushed him, and he fell, but he threw a stone anyway, and hit the birdy's wing, but Warlock is going to fix it!'

Only now did Dean's mind register the third participant of the scene. Just like on the video, the boy sitting cross-legged in the tall grass had the annoyingly-too-long dark hair and generally awkward look of a gangly thirteen-year-old; he was dressed in a strategically provocative way that let people take one look at the overly-expensive and overly-tight clothes and assume they now knew everything there was to know about the person in question; his eyes – strangely intense despite their utterly unremarkable colour – never left Matt's increasingly frustrated face, while his finger never stopped stroking a large disheveled crow laying limply on his lap: as the matter of fact, the boy's finger was moving in a very specific pattern, and with every completed figure the crow's wing was sticking out a little less awkwardly.

'Warlock,' Amanda's angry voice broke through Dean's observations, 'do you have anything to say?'

The boy nodded, but otherwise didn’t acknowledge her, still staring at Matt intently:

‘You will stay like this for twenty-four hours. Agent Davis,’ he nodded towards the simultaneously most menacing and most bored-looking of Secret Service agents lurking at a distance, ‘is the only one you’re allowed to ask for help with tasks you’re unable to perform one-handed. And if you come anywhere near Sister Crow again, I will crush you under the heel of my boot.’

‘Whatever,’ Matt spat out. ‘Why do you care, anyway? Birds are disgusting filthy creatures that shit everywhere!’

‘In that case, perhaps we should also label you as animal abuser,’ Warlock replied pensively, as he produced a permanent marker from where, Dean could swear, he didn’t even have a pocket. ‘A – B – U – S – E – R,’ he spelled for Wesley, who grabbed the marker and carefully started writing over the bandage he had just finished wrapping. ‘So that people would know you’re a disgusting creature and feel free to throw stones at you.’

‘You know, boys,’ Amanda cut in, giving Dean a clear “See what I’m talking about?” glare, ‘that’s precisely the kind of situation you should go over with Doctor McGowan.’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, “no”?’

‘I mean, this is not your decision to make,’ Warlock clarified, giving Amanda a stern glare. ‘Also, this is not a good time. We’ve all had quite a tiring experience. Sister Crow needs her nap, and, I believe, Wesley could benefit from one as well. Come on, Wesley.’

He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, without disturbing the still dazed but no longer unconscious bird he was holding, and briskly set off towards the busier part of the Lodge, where Dean had no hope to remain unnoticed.

‘But, Ms. Buckman said – ‘ Wesley started uncertainly, trying to run after his friend while still looking at the adults. Warlock paused to let the smaller boy catch up with him and decisively took his hand:

‘You don’t listen to her. Listen to me.’

*******

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*****


	3. Chapter 3

*

**

***

The little shit Wesley had to be a boy scout – or a serial killer in training – because it was taking ages to even find the knot amongst all the bandages wrapped securely around Matt’s chest. Finally, Dean left Amanda to deal with it and followed her directions to keep an eye on the other kids.

It wasn’t easy to find a good observation point close enough to the huge open terrace of the main house where the kids had set camp, but, luckily, Dean didn’t seem to have missed anything important. The crow had been made comfortable in a cardboard box densely scribbled with glyphs Dean couldn’t quite make out but would bet weren’t purely decorative, and Wesley was indeed curled up under a thick duvet on a recliner. As for Warlock, he was, once again, sitting cross-legged on another seat, humming something that sounded vaguely like a lullaby: except it was about blood, pain and walking over scorched earth. It was also, Dean was astounded to realise, in Enochian: and not the ugly mangled version every hunter had been forced to learn after Apocalypse became a thing, but the way it should sound, – with all those tricky overtones and subharmonics Dean only knew about because he had heard Cas speak it.

***

‘Fucking angels!’ Dean cursed silently, creeping out of his hiding place and back towards the bar where his alternative self had, hopefully, left Baby.

It took a while to figure out where he had parked, – which made sense: wouldn’t do for one of the Secret Service agents the place was crawling with to spot a car with a trunk full of weird weaponry, which – not unexpectedly but disappointingly – contained neither holy oil nor angel blades. His inner voice – sounding a little like Sam – cautiously asked whether such drastic measures were truly necessary, but Dean promptly silenced it: he was well familiar with monsters that chose to look like innocent kids, and an angel pretending to be some hot-shot politician’s kid and working his angelic mojo on other kids was clearly up to no good. Fortunately, he knew a very efficient way to deal with winged dicks that only required a pocketknife.

***

By the time Dean finally made his way back, both the boys (and the crow) were awake and eating dinner, after which they were joined by two twin girls for an elaborate 3D board game that seemed to involve mathematical equations and very detailed models of celestial bodies.

It was already dark when three sets of adults finally appeared to lead their kids away, and, while the two sets respectively attached to Wesley and the girls at least tried to look apologetic for being so late, the remaining couple looked somehow surprised to have a child at all (Dean wondered it that was what happened to all families when a winged dick moved in).

The Dowlings said goodbye to their colleagues and went inside without acknowledging their son beyond a careless “Don’t stay up to late”. Pretty soon the house went dark and quiet, and Dean decided it was time to make a move. However, as soon as he made one step towards the terrace, Warlock, who seemed to be pretty absorbed into his astronomy game (a way more advanced level than the one he had been showing the younger kids), jumped up, weapon in hand:

‘All right, what do you want?’

‘Relax, kid,’ Dean flashed his fake ID and put it back into a different pocket – the one with the knife. ‘I’m a psychologist, with Child Services, need to ask you a few questions, remember?’

‘No, you are not,’ Warlock sneered, sounding more annoyed than afraid. ‘If you were, you wouldn’t be creeping thought the night, like an epitome of “stranger danger”. And your ID wouldn’t have been issued in another state.’

The angel blade Warlock was holding looked like a wooden sword, – expertly and intricately carved, but still a child’s toy: something that probably made sense for an angel posing as a kid and ultimately didn’t matter. Dean recognised the grip and fighting stance of someone used to smiting enemies with divine wrath, rather than steel – so he wasn’t going to take any chances.

‘You are right, I’m not,’ he deadpanned with a cruel smile, as he pressed his bloodied hand to the banishing sigil he had just finished drawing, and – nothing happened.

‘Fuck, what the hell are you?’ Dean snarled, jumping over the railing and lunging to knock the sword out, but, before his fingers had a chance to close around Warlock’s wrist, a tattoo of elaborately coiled snake the hunter somehow hadn’t noticed until that moment raised its head and bared is tiny fangs with a menacing hiss. The display distracted Dean for less than a second, but gave the kid just enough time to lick his finger (which sizzled!) and swiftly trace Enochian rune for “Fire” on the blade of his wooden sword – causing it to actually burst into flames.

Dean took another second to consider his strategy: he had faced worse odds than a teenager with a torch, but it’s never a good idea to engage an enemy your weapon might be unable to kill. The hunter was just reaching for his trusted gun, about to try anyway, when he was once again startled – by Warlock’s cellphone blaring “Mary Poppins” theme, of all things.

The kid produced some sort of half-whine half-cough that would probably work even around a gag and had to mean “decline” in some obscure language. Or maybe “accept”, – because, as soon as the music stopped, a dark shape poured out of the kid’s pocket. It looked like a pixelized picture of an out-of-meatsuit demon that predictably swirled around Dean, who felt a brief moment of relief not having to worry about possession, except the thing turned out to have no problem assuming a physical form of its own. Which just had to be a snake: coal-black with blood-red underbelly, and long enough to entwine the hunter’s body from ankles to shoulders and still have a couple of extra loops for the neck. Dean wondered if he could still reach his gun, but, seemingly before he moved a muscle, the snake’s coils tightened around him to the point he could barely breathe. 

‘I don’t thhhhhink sssssso,’ the monster articulated much clearer than a serpentine throat should be capable of, and its head, ugly enough in its giant reptilian form, turned into something truly nightmarish: round, with huge burning eyes and more fangs than a predator that actually chews its prey might possibly need.

Meanwhile, Warlock’s pocket spat out a tight ball of bluish-white light that swelled and morphed into a plump curly-haired guy wearing a set of old-fashioned night clothes in shades of light-blue and cream. The guy looked soft and adorable, like a teddy bear, or an angel from a sappy Christmas card; he was also holding a slightly different but easily recognizable angel blade and the set of his shoulders suggested he was spreading his invisible but very real wings to shield Warlock from the beast about to crush Dean between its scaly coils, – or maybe from Dean himself: because, upon seeing him thus incapacitated, the guy visibly relaxed, made his blade disappear inside the sleeve of his fluffy bathrobe and turned around to thoroughly check Warlock for injuries.

‘I’m fine, Brother – Aziraphale. I’m also thirteen, not three,’ the kid mumbled sullenly, but didn’t try to get away very hard.

‘Of course you are, little master,’ the angel – Aziraphale? – cooed, stroking Warlock’s hair in a way more appropriate for a much younger child, and then turned to address the ugly-ass snake, his smile no less fond and gentle:

‘What do we have there, dearest?’

To Dean’s horror, the snake licked his cheek with its dripping slimy tongue, and then made a show of spitting on the ground in disgust.

‘Smells like one of yours, Angel,’ it reported. ‘But also like one of ours. And like something in between. But it’s all faded, like – it’s not truly there anymore. Care to explain yourself, mortal?’

‘Go to hell,’ Dean forced out through gritted teeth. ‘In fact, _Exorcizamus te_ , – ‘

‘There is no need for that kind of language, young man,’ the angel chastised primly, snapping his fingers, and Dean’s mouth was suddenly filled with rich thick toffee which proved impossible to either spit out or talk around.

‘I don’t think one of your former offices sent him,’ Warlock cut in. ‘He didn’t seem to actually know anything. He tried to banish me – like an angel. I think he is a hunter.’

‘But, that doesn’t make sense,’ Aziraphale mumbled, genuinely confused. ‘Angels don’t interact with hunters. Actually, angels aren’t supposed to interact with humans, point. How would – ‘

‘Well,’ the Snake stuck out its forked tongue, but didn’t bother licking Dean again; instead it thoroughly tasted the air around him, getting closer and closer to a particular spot on his shoulder, ‘I thhhhink I know whom we shhhhhould asssssk.’

‘But first, perhaps, we should take this discussion elsewhere,’ Aziraphale concluded decisively; and, in a gesture which bode no good, reached out for Dean’s forehead with two outstretched fingers.

*******

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope at least one Hollywood version of "Mary Poppins" has a recognisable musical theme; because neither Dean nor Warlock are likely to recognise the one I was actually thinking about :-P


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, it should be clear from the text itself, but, just in case someone finds in objectionable enough not to keep reading, let me WARN you that, according to my headcanon (that probably has no premises in the show), Castiel is pretty young for an angel.

*****

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*******

When he finally regained consciousness, Dean was strapped to a heavy wooden chair in a deceptively small room with books clattering every available surface. The angel, Aziraphale, had exchanged his pjs for an equally peculiar pastel-coloured attire that had already been out of fashion a century ago; the Snake had been presumably replaced by an equally long and lean, but distinctly human figure, completed with a shock of fiery-red hair and still unmistakably reptilian eyes.

Both of them – the angel and the Snake-eyes – were busy working a spell over an elaborated candle-lit sigil permanently carved into a segments of the flooring; they weren’t actually chanting, just staring at it intently, but Dean could almost see the huge waves of power rolling between them. The faded hand-shaped scar on Dean’s shoulder burned hotter with every second, but the physical sensation was nothing compared to the intense sense of longing the spell invoked in his soul.

‘Aaaand, now!’ the angel exclaimed excitedly.

Snake-eyes expertly kicked a slightly off-center candle back into its proper position, and a semi-opaque floor-to-selling energy barrier erected moments before the sigil within erupted with blindingly white light, spitting out a rope of bluish fire that Dean had come to associate with visible spectrum of angelic grace; except, as the light from the sigil died out, it became clear that the shine of the grace in question was significantly dimmed, and tell-tale blue sparks kept falling off and burning out before reaching the floor with the grace’s every – awkward and sluggish – swirl within the magic circle.

‘Oh, you poor thing!’ Aziraphale whispered, his eyes widening in horror.

Simultaneously, the Snake’s lips pressed into a thin line of feigned annoyance as he snapped:

‘What the Heaven happened to you, fledgling?’

The trapped angel pressed itself to the opposite side of the barrier with an indignant screech.

‘I didn’t fall, I sauntered vaguely downwards. And stop moving so much, you’ll hurt yourself worse!’ the Snake replied tersely.

‘Hush, little one,’ Aziraphale intervened smoothly, turning to stand with his back to the barrier, and for a moment Dean could see a faint outline of wing curling protectively around the being within. ‘He won’t hurt you, I promise.’

‘I might if you don’t start talking,’ the Snake-eyed hissed with no real bite behind it.

The trapped “fledgling” started talking – still in Enochian, so Dean only understood a few random words: Sam had always been the one eager to learn, which Dean had taken as an excuse not to, plus he was kinda preoccupied with waiting for his ears to start bleeding. Fortunately, the barrier seemed to be pretty efficient in filtering the less human-friendly aspects of an angel’s true image and true voice, – which sounded very different, not coming through the vocal cords of a human vessel, but those deadpan intonations Dean would recognise everywhere.

‘Cas?’ the hunter jumped in disbelief and nearly fell down, momentarily forgetting the ropes still holding him firmly in place. ‘What happened to Cas?’

‘Apparently, you did, genius!’ Snake-eyes shouted. ‘Or weren’t you the one clinging to your Bond with one hand and drawing a banishing sigil with the other?’

Dean felt the sadly familiar urge to kick himself. Of course, there had been no way to know Sam had been about to use the sigil while Dean himself had been mentally willing Cas to remember the connection they didn’t share in this weird Apocalypse-free world, but the previous time being banished hadn’t ended all that well for Cas, and Dean could have at least wondered what had happened to no longer “his” angel.

‘And re-education, seriously?’ the Snake continued, turning away to pace and obviously no longer talking to Dean. ‘I thought they were done with that crap when they threw all of us, black sheep, downstairs.’

‘What the hell is “re-education”?’ Dean exclaimed, inwardly dreading that he knew it very well.

‘Hhhhhell hhhasss nothhhhing on re-educatttion,’ the Snake inadvertently confirmed. Castiel whimpered and curled into an even tighter shape under the older angel’s wing.

‘Oh, none of that, you poor thing,’ Aziraphale cooed, ‘surely, it looks bad, but we can fix you, can’t we, dearest?’

‘I don’t know,’ Snake-eyes sighed, running his hands through his hair in frustration, ‘I haven’t seen so much damage since the War. We need to stop the damage from spreading before we even attempt to reverse it, but his physical form is barely holding. He needs a corporation, urgently.’

‘His vessel lives in Pontiac, Illinois,’ Dean supplied. ‘But last time I saw him, he was pretty glad to get rid of Cas. I don’t think he’ll willingly let an angel in ever again.’

‘How did you even end up in a vessel?’ Aziraphale wondered. ‘The last time I was in Heaven they were adamant I couldn’t just possess a human. Although I suppose I successfully proved them wrong.’

‘Yes, Madame Tracy proved surprisingly understanding of your predicament,’ Snake-eyes smirked, and then immediately frowned. ‘Did your vessel forcibly eject you?’

Cas, apparently, made some sign of agreement.

‘So, that’s where the third-way rupture is from. Couldn’t Naomi have the decency to patch you up before messing with your mind? Well, lucky for you, we’ve decided we can’t expect to stumble upon an antichrist every time Aziraphale accidentally steps into his own summoning circle. Warlock!’

The kid appeared in front of the Snake with the speed that suggested he had been hiding behind the nearest bookshelf throughout the conversation.

‘What did I tell you about eavesdropping?’

‘Not to get caught,’ Warlock replied shamelessly, presenting an elaborately carved wooden box. ‘I’ve brought the Discorporation Kit. May I watch, please, Nanny? I need to know how to do it, just in case, don’t’ I?’

The snaked-eyed “nanny” gave the kid a look full of pride and fondness and pretended to think the situation through.

‘Well, since you’re here anyway, I suppose you might just as well do it. After all, Aziraphale and I had better save our strength for what comes afterwards, and you do need to practice – just in case. Here, use this,’ he fetched a potted plant from across the room and mercilessly ripped it out, shoving the vegetation into someone’s forgotten teacup with one hand and handing Warlock the pot with the other. ‘It was unforgivably late with its blooming, anyway.’

*******

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	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, the whole ritual thing is completely made up, but, just in case, "don't try it at home" :-P

*****

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*******

Dean watched wearily as Warlock cleared out a heavy antique desk (which, underneath all those piles of books, turned out to have a set of protective sigils carved into its surface), produced a set of even more ancient-looking tools from one of the cupboards, poured some water into a fancily ornate stone bowl, upturned the flowerpot into it and started stirring in other ingredients while singing softly under his nose.

‘What’s he doing?’ Dean finally asked the Snake, who, unlike Aziraphale, was not too busy with anxiously mouthing along the words of incantation.

‘Weren’t you listening? A body.’

‘Out of dirt?’

‘Isn’t that what you lot are made of, anyway? Says so in the Bible, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, but I’ve met God, and that’s sure as hell not him!’

‘No one but God can create Life,’ Snake-eyes scoffed impatiently. ‘But all the rest is just – molecules. Watch.’

Watching took a better part of two hours before the incantation came to an end and the unpleasant grayish mass, which at one point had started bubbling rather alarmingly, finally settled.

‘Looks quite all right’ Aziraphale nodded, as Warlock carefully transferred the bowl to the floor, knelt by its side, produced a state-of-the-art jackknife and used the blade to draw Enochian rune for “Substance” on the jellified mass. The content of the bowl crawled over the edge and steadily expanded till it was approximately human-sized. Warlock rose and drew the “Shape” rune somewhere in the middle. The pile solidified into a very crude representation of a human body; its texture, when the boy went on to scratch the next rune (“Essence”) on the statue’s non-existent face, no longer resembled jelly, but something harder, like clay.

‘Er, where am I supposed to find someone who carries that angel’s image in their heart?’ Warlock asked confusedly.

‘I don’t think that is going to be a problem,’ the Snake smirked, somehow slithering – despite still being in his human form – to Dean’s side.

‘Think of your angel, hunter,’ he hissed hypnotically, and so Dean did.

He thought of the glorious warrior of God who first appeared to him all those year ago and of the empty husk slain by Lucifer’s hand, and of every Cas in between: fighting, hurting, bleeding, dying and still coming back to their side, – and had to bite his lip in order not to cry.

‘Think how you might never see him again,’ the demon continued mercilessly, – and then Dean did cry. Warlock expertly caught a tear on the blade of his trusted jackknife and carefully let it slide in the middle of the “Essence” rune. The silvery drop obediently rolled around the uncomplicated pattern, causing the ugly statue morph into a perfect replica of Castiel’s vessel just like Dean remembered it, completed with inverted tie and beige trench coat.

‘Now the fun part,’ Snake-eyes intoned gravely.

‘Would you like me to take over, Warlock, darling?’ Aziraphale suggested gently.

The kid paled slightly, but squared his jaw decisively:

‘No, I can do it.’

Dean once again tried to jump up and was stopped both by the ropes and the demon’s heavy hand on his shoulder, as they watched Warlock carefully unbutton Castiel’s shirt and take up the knife again, wincing at the sight of blood spilling from the cut skin. Once completed, the unfamiliar rune blossoming on Cas’s stomach between the scarred banishing sigil and the protective tattoo looked like a segmented square with an extra tail which, in other three possible positions, could shift the meaning from “permission” to “invitation” to “summoning”.

***

‘That was masterfully done, my little miracle worker,' Aziraphale beamed, taking the knife out of Warlock's slightly shaking hand and cleaning it with a snap of his fingers, 'Now just sit and watch for a while. I'm afraid we'll have to work fast, but we can go over the ritual later, if you're still interested. Ready, dearest?'

‘Ready when you are, Angel,’ the Snake grinned and once again kicked one of the candles out of alignment just in time for Aziraphale to send Castiel Action Doll to the middle of the sigil with another snap of his fingers. The significantly diminished blob of dimly shining grace rose with visible effort and crawled into the statue's open mouth.

Castiel's eyes produced a lackluster flash of white light and his no longer stony muscles unlocked, so he would have ended up on the floor if Aziraphale hadn't stopped his descent with a gesture.

The demon once again snapped his fingers to banish Cas's clothes across the room and produced two sharpies out of nowhere:

'What do you say, Angel, sewing or stuffing?'

'I suppose I can close the rips, but manipulating grace is definitely your area of expertise.'

'Sewing it is,' Snake-eyes concluded, threw one of the sharpies to his angel and proceeded to use the other to draw a complicated set of sigils on Castiel's front while Aziraphale was doing something similar to the back. Warlock was watching them with rapt fascination and occasionally taking notes, jotting down the apparently not so many signs he couldn't recognize.

‘That's a pretty impressive skill set you have there,’ Dean prompted unsubtly.

‘All children have access to magic,’ Warlock shrugged. ‘I just never got a chance to stop believing, growing up with those two.’

‘But, how did you end up with them?’

‘Nanny misplaced the Antichrist,’ the kid huffed dismissively. ‘Kinda a long story, but it ends well. He got to grow up human and stop the Apocalypse, and I got to grow up learning that the power of love goes beyond good and evil. Look,' he put his notebook aside and nodded towards his two supernatural guardians still working on Cas, as if there was any doubt whom he meant.

Aziraphale and his demon stood hand in hand, the other hand hovering over Cas’s back and chest respectively, chanting in perfect unison. The light flowing off the tips of their fingers was not heavenly white or hellish red; it was rich pure gold, the kind Dean had only seen in – Jack: enough power to subdue an Archangel, which should have burnt an ordinary angel to ashes and completely obliterate a demon, was swirling obediently around Cas in complicated patterns, washing off the symbols that had been drawn on his skin one by one.

When the last of the symbols was gone, the Snake snapped Cas’s clothes back in place with a triumphant smile, and then immediately frowned: Cas now looked like he could stand under his own volition, but his gaze was still dazed and distant.

‘Something is wrong. Why is he still slipping?’ Aziraphale confirmed, carefully touching the younger angel’s temple.

‘Re-education,’ the demon spat out in grim understanding. ‘He didn’t have enough grace to spare while he was dying, but now it’s doing its best to kick in. He needs some kind of an anchor, or it is back to factory settings for him.’

Aziraphale, surprisingly, lit up:

‘You know I don’t understand your technological metaphors, dearest. But I know exactly what anchors me when I’m in danger of losing myself.’

Without taking his sappy adoring gaze off his demon, Aziraphale carelessly waved his hand and Dean’s chair was unceremoniously dragged across the room and deposited right in front of Castiel, who, in his turn, raised his hand and unerringly grabbed Dean’s shoulder right where the brand of being “gripped tight and raised form perdition” was now barely visible.

Dean’s vision dimmed, and instead of the cosy book-filled room he suddenly saw blood pooling on a dirty floor and black foam smearing Cas’s lips as he whispered: “I love you – all of you”; then the scene changed to an equally dirty side street, and Cas’s eyes were shining with cold angelic fury as he thundered “Is this why I fell?”; and then the flow of memories rose high enough for Dean to nearly drawn, but something told him to hold on and not to resist. When he finally resurfaced, the first thing he saw was the special shade of cobalt blue Jimmy Novak’s mortal irises shouldn’t be able to sport; and then the ropes fixing him to the chair were finally gone in one powerful jerk, as achingly familiar raspy voice drawled:

‘Hello, Dean.’

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	6. Chapter 6

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As soon as he was free to move, Dean took a huge leap backwards, because his hunter's instincts told him to get far away from two insanely powerful supernatural beings even before he realised that the gun tucked in his belt was now an obnoxiously bright plastic thing that could only shoot suction cup darts and the knife strapped to his ankle – a rapidly melting popsicle. Too bad that this evasion maneuver took him inadvisably closer to the ratty sofa, from where Warlock promptly disappeared a millisecond before Dean once again found the snake-from-hell standing on its tail in a truly gravity-defying manner, its fanged muzzle looming half a meters above the hunter's head; meanwhile, Aziraphale was doing a pretty good job staring down Cas, his bigger and badder angel blade firmly in hand:

‘I don't want to fight you, little brother,’ he said quietly, steel undertone unmistakable in his soft melodic voice, ‘but if you make me, I will win.’

To Dean's astonishment, Cas actually bowed – first to the older angel, and then to the demonic snake:

‘I am not going to fight you, brothers; not after what you’ve done for me. And I'll do my best not to let heaven know what happened here.’

‘Oh, feel free to shhhhare,’ the snake-demon hissed gleefully, somehow simultaneously retreating, putting on a more socially acceptable version of his head, shrinking in size and draping himself obnoxiously over Aziraphale’s shoulder. ‘They are overdue for a refreshhhher coursssse on why exsssactly they shhhhhould not be messssssing with usssss, anyway.’

‘But if either of you comes anywhere near Warlock again,’ Aziraphale continued pleasantly, ‘you will find out what else we can do together.’

‘You have my word,’ Cas replied solemnly, and, when Dean failed to provide his own reassurance, elbowed him in the ribs – a gesture he had only learnt after his first stint of almost human.

'Yeah, ok, I won't, but - '

Aziraphale shut Dean's upcoming rant with a fluid hand motion.

'Wonderful. We will resume this discussion at a later date, over a cup of tea, perhaps. But for now, Castiel, you should really take your charge home. You seem to have a lot to talk about.'

‘Wait,’ Dean tried to say, but Cas’s fingers had already connected with his forehead, and the world lurched to rearrange itself about them.

***

‘So,’ Dean asked, as the “Angel Express” spat them inside the Impala and he started driving back to Kansas, despite having no idea whether this version of him had had a chance to find the Bunker, ‘is it really you or does it just seem that way because they mixed my memories into the dirt they baked the new you out of?’

‘That we might never know, Dean. That kind of magic precedes the Flood, and I doubt there are many of us left who remember how it is supposed to work in the first place. But all angels felt the shift in the timeline, and I was aware enough not to kill you on sight despite Zacharia’s orders; although I do believe it was our Bond that caused my alternative set of memories to resurface. Why, does it truly matter?’

‘Of course it matters, Cas! I mean, I would have been glad to have you back in my life – in whatever capacity, and I’m doubly glad that I don’t have to rebuild our friendship from scratch, considering the stellar job I did the first time round, but if you remember the life that was erased you have to know good things don’t just randomly happen to the Winchesters. What do we have to watch out for? Are you going to Fall again? Is your grace going to burn out? What do I do when they come to drag you back to Heaven, and who “they” even are? Who’s in charge Upstairs now that Sam’s gunked Zacharia, and, oh my god, are they going to come for Sam? He’s gotten out, and he doesn’t remember, and he probably doesn’t even know angels exist, let alone how to deal with them, and – ‘

‘Calm down, Dean!’ Cas barked with none of angelic serenity and a hefty dose of very human-like annoyance, ‘I am fine, and so is Sam. All that “bloodlines and destiny” nonsense had been Zacharia’s pet project, and Michael and Gabriel – or, rather, as I now realise, Naomi and Bartholomew – had since found a shortcut that, of course, also backfired, so Heaven is in no position to attempt another one so soon. Sam is, therefore, completely useless to them, but of course we can visit to make sure he and his family are well protected. Speaking of which, – ‘

‘Wait, wait, wait,’ Dean flinched as he was once again poked at the ribs – this time with a pulse of angelic power behind it, and the unforgettable feeling of protective sigils being scratched into his bones washed over his torso, ‘are you saying there was _another_ failed Apocalypse? Brought on by Michael _and_ Gabriel? And how do those assholes Bartholomew and Naomi fit into this?’

‘It is a very long story, Dean.’

‘Well, it is a very long drive to California.’

‘May I remind you that, as I have regained full use of my wings, I can get us there and back again in a matter of seconds?’

‘Hell, no! I’m not explaining angels to Sam on what to him must be my first visit in, what, ten years? And it’s probably not a good idea to zap across the country when we are trying to fly below the radar. And you know I hate Angel Express. So get your feathery ass comfortable and start talking!’

‘I have no feathers on my backside,’ Castiel intoned. ‘In fact, I have no feathers at all, as, contrary to popular belief, there are no invisible birdwings attached to this body’s shoulder blades.’

‘Yes, I remember, you’re a giant wave of celestial intent,’ Dean smirked, taking a sharp turn. ‘The second Apocalypse, Cas?!’

‘Well, you see,’ the angel started, leaning back with a tiny smile of his own, ‘In the beginning, back in the Garden – ‘

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	7. EPILOGUE

_Dear Pat,_

_I hope you are happy. That ambassador of yours has decided to stay for another week, so now we can't take any more reservations and even have to cancel on people who can’t pass a background check._

_Meanwhile, the kid’s nanny showed up, along with her husband. Apparently, *they* don’t need to pass a background check. I mean, what the hell, the kid is nearly ready for high school, how does he still have a nanny? At least the nanny has taken charge and put all children to work on a group project. As I understand, they are making a fake burial site that would suggest dinosaurs were sentient. Don't be surprised when in a few years our land will turn into archaeological site._

_Also, another journalist managed to slither in, this time disguised as a child psychologist. At least I assume he was a journalist, because he disappeared without a trace and Child Services say they hadn’t sent anybody. Thankfully, the kids were smart enough not to tell him anything._

_Come home already and clean your own mess._

_Screw you,_

_Amanda_


End file.
